Liquid Morality
by laced-scrawl
Summary: Can you ever have a relationship with the ex-girlfriend of a man you killed? When Draco finds himself in such a situation, he starts to doubt his sanity. "I guess I'm a sucker for punishment." Please R&R x
1. Chapter 1

**Liquid Morality **

**A/N:** Yes, I'm back again! It's been ages since I've written anything and while life is still hectic, I found I couldn't ignore this story anymore. I know roughly where I'm going with this but I've decided to leave bits of it up to improvisation - fingers crossed it works! I hope you like this and please let me know what you think – I'd love to hear anything you have to say. This is a pretty depressing chapter but I promise things will lighten up eventually – it's necessary for the story!

Anyway, that's enough of me and my boring rant! Please read and review!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot!

**Chapter One: Hurricane Drunk **

"_And you can't save me now, _

_I'm in the grip of a hurricane…"_

_Hurricane Drunk, Florence + the Machine_

Blood-stained hands.

No matter how many times he tried to scrub his hands clean, he couldn't get rid of the transparent lines of scarlet etched onto his skin so intricately that they entwined themselves with his veins. No amount of soap could burn the thought from his mind, and he felt like he would always be destined to live with it.

He scowled and gave up for the night. As he reached for his towel he caught sight of himself in the mirror: unshaven and dishevelled, vacant expression and tired eyes. The clean, aristocratic image of a younger boy was a distant memory now. He couldn't be that person any more. He squinted slightly, trying to rearrange his features to fit the seventeen year old image of himself. He mentally softened his jawline, eradicated the stubble and combed out his once striking blond locks. For a fleeting second, he almost believed it. But his eyes refused to change. They had become cold - a dark steel that could no longer sparkle with arrogance or amusement.

He felt like he had no soul.

He dried his hands, turned off the lights, and crawled under his covers for another sleepless night. There was a time, long ago, when the darkness would have soothed him. But now all it did was awaken a mental slideshow of the images he tried so hard to block out. Amongst the screams and the masses of bodies, there was always one that appeared last:

He was always looking down the length of his wand at a body on the ground, weakened with the effects of curses being flung at it. The man's back was towards him. Just as a bony hand scrambled anxiously in search of a wand, he could hear his voice, thick with regret but smooth with confidence, utter two unforgivable words.

_Avada Kadavra. _

And then he was crouched beside the body, turning it over to see the man's face.

A mass of ginger hair and freckles greeted him.

His hands begin to shake. He knew that face all too well.

The air became heavy and his lungs clenched together.

And then he threw up.

**x-x-x**

Another box packed.

She smiled wryly at it before uncapping her black marker pen and scrawling '_Book Box 5'_ on the top. She took a look around the room and ignored the way her stomach clenched at the emptiness. _This is good. This is healthy. _

Walking out of the living room, she made her way to her bedroom. Hesitating as her hand touched the door knob, she willed herself to open it. _It's time. _Slowly, tentatively, she stepped inside. She hadn't been in there for months, opting to sleep on the sofa whenever the urge to close her eyes claimed her. But now she had no choice. The longer she left it, the longer the demons had to fester.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. _His _aftershave lingered with her perfume. Forgotten scents that danced around the room, reminding her of a happier time. She looked at the bed, perfectly well-made and oh so inviting. As she walked across the room she ran her hand over the crisp comforter and thought of the domestic bliss she'd once experienced. Her eyes darted across the pictures on the wall – memories of when she'd been truly happy assaulted her, and she paused mid step. She could hear laughter.

But then she thought of the events of the past four years, and all she could hear was silence. The kind of silence she'd soon become accustomed to – the silence that had engulfed the room as she'd waited with baited breath to hear the death count.

Swallowing thickly, she made her way over to the closet. Her mother had taken her clothes months before, but on her firm instruction, left _his _alone. She opened the door and stepped forward, allowing herself to smell him for the first time.

Before she knew it she was crying, clutching the garments as if her life depended on it. She ended up on the floor, face buried in one of his old shirts.

She sat there for hours.

It was unfair – as most things were. Any second now, she knew she'd have to steel herself again. Pick herself up off the floor, wipe away her tears and start packing again. She couldn't break down.

But all she really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and forget everything. She was already forgetting who she was – who _he _was – and it terrified her, but it also soothed her slightly. The idea of not having to deal with anything was oddly appealing given that she'd been dealing with issues too adult and too taxing for her entire adolescence and early adult life.

But she knew that until she got the truth, she'd never get closure. And without closure, she felt like she was bleeding to death from an open wound.

The air would forever be heavy, and the pressure in her chest would never alleviate.

She didn't have the energy to throw up any more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Liquid Morality**

**A/N: **Hey! Thank you to everyone who favourited, alerted and reviewed – each one meant a lot to me! Chapter two's up finally, though it's a lot shorter than I originally intended it to be. But I promise that not only will chapter three be longer, but it will also feature some Dramione interaction! I hope you like it and I'd love to know what you think, so please review! Happy Easter!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot!

**Chapter Two: Toy Soldiers**

_Only emptiness remains,_

_It replaces all, all the pain._

_Toy Soldiers - Martika. _

Despite popular belief, Draco Malfoy had never been one for seedy nightclubs.

The music was always too loud and not to his taste, the lighting was either too dim or too stark, and the women were never as desirable as they seemed after one too many firewhiskeys. He'd always felt like a fish out of water in such establishments. But since the war, he'd come to see the appeal. Where better to escape from the harshness of reality than a place which asked no questions? He felt comfortable in the shadows where the name Malfoy held little prestige and little fear. He'd found that, as long as he never looked up too suddenly, the lighting failed to hurt his eyes. And the women stayed away if he put up as many barriers as possible. The last thing he needed was another conquest to complicate his life any further.

It turned out that the young Malfoy wasn't the only one. Many had taken to drowning their sorrows in such secluded watering holes, all united by the trauma they'd experienced regardless of what side they'd fought for. It was easy to spot them; men and women emitting the same emptiness as if it were a special scent.

Draco smirked half-heartedly to himself. The war seemed to have eliminated all traces of 'the individual', leaving a cloned race in its place.

"You call that a drink, Zabini?"

Blaise ignored his friend's sneer at his tall glass of butterbeer and cracked a smile.

"It's better than the poison you insist on pouring into yourself."

Draco nodded grimly and cast his eyes over his friend's face.

Gaunt. Colourless. Creased.

His eyes no longer held the promise of mischief they used to exude. It was harrowing really – Zabini had suffered no physical injury from the war, and yet he looked more disheveled than most in the St Mungos trauma ward.

"Sleep still alluding you?"

Draco nodded again, running a hand through his hair and fixing Blaise with a troubled gaze.

"I don't know what else to do! Potions and magic don't help, and that muggle stuff only made me feel worse when I woke up. It's fucking me up, mate."

Blaise sighed in understanding and began fidgeting with his hands.

"Look Draco, I think it's time you took control of the situation –"

"How am I supposed to take control of something that can't be controlled?" Draco snapped.

Blaise shook his head and tried to reason with the blond.

"We went through a lot of shit. The stuff we've seen…the stuff we've _done_…the sounds…But we have to find a way of living somehow."

Draco pondered his words. Redemption was something that seemed intent on staying out of arms reach for him. Azkaban had refused to have him, he hadn't lost his family's manor or fortune, and - the most puzzling of all, he was still alive. Draco wasn't used to doing things for himself. Since he was a child, things had either been done for him, or to him. Decisions had been made, and he'd gone along with them. For so long now, he'd been waiting for someone to come and deal with the situation for him - punish him for his deeds and deal with his life. This concept of taking charge was new and surreal.

"I don't suppose you've worked out a system?" he asked.

"I don't know about a system, but I did stop drinking and living in denial," Blaise said in a sagacious tone. "And I grew some balls and went to talk to the families I'd affected."

Draco's eyes widened and he looked at Blaise in awe.

"_What_?"

Blaise swallowed thickly.

"I know it sounds ridiculous. Merlin, sometimes I can't believe I actually did it. But honestly Draco, there's nothing like it. Nothing can punish you more than looking into the eyes of the people you've taken something from and seeing the pain you've caused. We've left children without parents, parents without children, people without their other halves. You don't realise just how much that means until you see it for yourself."

Draco's throat was dry. He could understand where Blaise was coming from – in a weird way it made sense. But the thought of doing it himself made him feel undeniably queasy. He'd hurt too many people to even begin to list, and the one murder that affected him more than the rest was something he didn't want to touch. It was a can of worms that had to remain sealed.

"Didn't they lash out at you?" he asked.

Blaise chuckled dryly.

"Of course. Believe me, I've been hit and insulted more times than I care to remember. But it's worth it – what we did…there's no punishment that fits the crimes. But this comes pretty close."

Draco sighed heavily.

"Something tells me that I won't be going to visit the Weasleys anytime soon."

Blaise leaned back, piercing him with hard eyes.

"It's not just the Weasleys you took something from though, is it?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Liquid Morality**

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who favourite, alerted and reviewed! I love the response this is getting! I hope you all like this chapter – it took me a while to get right. I'm not planning on giving the Weasleys a huge role, but I felt it necessary to include them – as Ron's family they are key in pushing Hermione's character further emotionally. I'd love to hear what you think – both good and bad – I know this isn't my best, but I hope you like it anyway! Next chapter will be solely focused on Draco and Hermione! :)

Also, thank you to kanjimaru67 whose review I couldn't reply to – it made me smile!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot.

**Chapter 3: Leave my Body**

"_I don't want your future, _

_I don't need your past, _

_One bright moment is all I ask" _

Leave my Body - Florence & the Machine

"Are you sure, Hermione? Not even for half an hour?"

Hermione smiled sadly at the auburn-haired woman in front of her and shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Gin. Now just isn't a good time…"

Ginny Weasley sighed heavily and leaned against the door frame. When she'd first arrived at the Grangers' house that morning to collect Hermione, she'd known that it wouldn't be an easy task. For the past few months, the brunette had exhausted every possible excuse she could think of for not accompanying them to visit Ron's grave. It wouldn't have concerned Ginny too much if not for the fact the Hermione hadn't been once since the funeral – five months ago.

Losing Ron had been the hardest casualty of the war for them, and everyone was feeling the strain. The Burrow, although still a home, was no longer as warm as it once was. There was a sense of emptiness in the air – a heavy presence weighing down on the atmosphere, suffocating its inhabitants slowly. _Torturously_. As if laced with some sort of poison.

Molly and Arthur Weasley had aged ten years in a matter of months, unable to fathom a way of dealing with the loss of their youngest son. Sleep no longer felt like sleep any more. Time held no meaning. They seemed to get through the day on autopilot, thinking of nothing and everything all at once. She wasn't any better. During the war, Ginny would comfort herself with plans of reuniting with Harry once everything was over. It was a pragmatic dream. She'd never fully considered how it would happen, or even _if _it would happen.

After being told by Lupin that they'd found Ron's body, that he was stone-cold dead, there was no room in her thoughts for anything else.

Five months later things were still the same.

Some days had been slightly better than others, but Ginny shivered to think of every Sunday when the red-headed brood would sit around the table for dinner, and Ron's chair would remain empty.

A space that could never be filled.

"Mum would love to see you. Everyone would."

Conversation had become limited to "how are things?" and "lovely weather". Every Sunday there was an awkward silence that no one ever knew how to fill. Fred and George had taken to exchanging meaningful glances across the table, whilst Ginny, Fleur and Harry, on occasion, would try valiantly to keep the mood as neutral as possible. Charlie had taken a one-way Portkey back to Romania and refused to come back.

Yet, despite the tension and stifling sense of loss, there was a sense of comfort in simply being able to _see _everyone. To know that they were still there.

Hermione fiddled with the loose threads on her jumper, looking remarkably small in her parents' hallway, avoiding all eye contact.

"Not today."

Ginny knew Hermione wasn't being selfish maliciously. The war seemed to have taught everyone to think about themselves in one way or another. Some turned to potions that promised to put them into a numbing sleep, whilst others became introverted. She couldn't lie and say that she didn't want Hermione there for her own need for a friend to lean on.

Hermione saw Ginny's face fall and tried to ignore the wave of guilt that washed over her.

"I'm sorry Ginny," she said in a small voice. "If I could force myself to come I would, but I just don't have the energy anymore."

"You shouldn't have to force yourself!" Ginny exclaimed, her patience finally wearing thin. "I'm not asking for the world, Hermione, I'm asking for you to understand that you're not the only one going through this! We've all lost him too!"

The words cut through Hermione like tiny shards of glass. She knew this would happen. It was why she'd been so reluctant about answering the door. Every week it was the same predicament – Ginny or Harry would ask her to go, she'd refuse and then hate herself to see their crestfallen expressions. She would have given everything she had in that moment to be able to smile brightly at the young witch and go with her. Every last fibre of her being wanted to go. But she wasn't ready to face it yet. She wasn't ready to face _him_.

"I know…I wish I could –"

"Don't bother. I wouldn't want you to over-exert yourself," Ginny snapped, wrenching the front door open and stepping outside.

"Ginny wait, I don't want to leave things like this!"

Ginny took a series of deep breaths before turning to face Hermione.

"You may not need anyone else's support, Hermione, but did it ever occur to you that we need _yours_? We all went through the same experience – remember all those nights we sat up and waited for the people to come home? Remember having to say goodbye and thinking we'd never see each other again? How do you think it makes us feel now that we can finally stop living with that fear, you decide to become a recluse and drop off the radar?"

Ginny was now growing increasingly pink in colour, and Hermione was finding it hard to hold the gaze of the green eyes that were now flashing dangerously. Guilt pounded through her and her chest began to tighten.

_You need to hear this. _

"And Harry?" Ginny continued, her harangue far from over. "Well, let's just say he feels like he's lost _both_ of his best friends. After everything you've been through together you can't even make the effort to owl him?"

Hermione was so numb she didn't once feel the tears trickle down her face.

Ginny took a deep breath and ran her hands through her hair distractedly, the anger seeping away leaving vulnerability in its wake.

"We _miss _you."

In the future when she looked back over the events of her life, Hermione knew that this moment, and those three words, would stand out for their importance. Maybe it was the broken tone in which they were spoken. Perhaps it was the anger she could see in the other girl's expression. Maybe it was simply because when she looked past Ginny's head for a moment, she noticed that it had begun to rain – she couldn't remember the last time she'd noticed the weather. Regardless of why, Hermione was affected enough to stand on the doorstep long after Ginny had left, slowly getting soaked, and feeling slightly more human than she had in a long time.

**x-x-x**

Draco Malfoy had never been to a muggle neighbourhood before.

Born and raised in an isolated manor under the prejudiced eye of his father, it was hardly on the top of his to-do list. Whilst at the age of twenty-one he knew that a lot of what he'd been taught was wrong, he was still largely apprehensive about being in the muggle world. He had no idea what to expect, and didn't like feeling so ignorant. He knew he was like a fish out of water, and with no one to reassure him or do the deed for him, the anxiety was beginning to mount.

Standing on the Grangers' doorstep with no one to ask for assistance, he contemplated his actions thus far. Since Blaise had spoken to him, he'd been unable to shake the idea away, regardless of how hard he tried. So for some reason, he'd decided to throw himself into a situation completely out of his comfort zone and waltz into the muggle world to tell Hermione Granger – his sworn nemesis for ten years – that he'd killed her fiancé five months earlier.

Out of all the stupid things he'd done in his life, Draco was sure this was pretty high on the list.

It hadn't taken him long to find the Grangers' house, but once he'd located it, he'd stood on the doorstep for ages, his thoughts entangling themselves into an even greater mess. He was so tempted to leave. All he had to do was turn around. He had no plan of how he would deal with the events that transpired after being granted the chance to speak to her. Every time he considered his approach, his head began to hurt. Granger had a temper on her, and Merlin only knew what she was like now in a grief-stricken state. But there was a small part of him that knew he had to tell her. If it would help him sleep for a few hours, it had to be worth it.

He inspected the doorbell with a scowl, unsure of how to proceed. In a moment of experimentation, he pushed the button and startled back as it made a noise. He shuffled nervously as he waited for her to open the door, shifting his weight on each foot. It felt like hours before he heard footsteps approaching from the other side.

Before he knew it, the door had opened, and he was standing directly in front of a soaking-wet Hermione Granger.

_Bloody Hell. _

She'd gotten thinner. Her hair, still bushy and brown, had lost some of its life. Her cheeks had gone in slightly, and her clothes, though dripping with water, hung off her petite frame. She had the same hollow look in her eyes as everyone else.

_Another product of destruction. _

"_Malfoy_?"

Her eyes swept over him, though he noticed that they didn't widen in fear like so many others. He was suddenly glad his cloak masked his mark on his forearm.

"Granger," he returned gruffly.

Keeping one hand on the door, as if poised to slam it shut, she poked her chin up and glared at him.

"What are you doing here?"

And there it was. The million dollar question. What _was _he doing there. He swallowed the lump in his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I…don't know."

_If only you knew. _

There was a long pause.

The rain poured, and Draco barely felt it.

The clock ticked, and Hermione barely heard it.

Just when he was convinced that nothing would come of it, she spoke.

"Are you coming in?"

His eyes widened.

"You shouldn't let me in, Granger," he advised, his voice grainy.

Hermione smiled wryly and leaned against the door frame.

"You're right. I shouldn't."

Draco nodded solemnly and decided it was for the best. Associating with the families of the victims may have helped Blaise, but it wasn't for him. Draco was a Malfoy, and a large part of being a Malfoy – as he had come to find out – meant being a coward. He wasn't going to fight against her or persuade her to let him in.

Straightening up, he began to depart before Hermione stepped aside.

Draco blinked.

"I guess I'm a sucker for punishment."

_That makes two of us. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Liquid Morality**

**A/N: **Finally finished this chapter amongst finalising bits of coursework and revision– sorry for the wait! Thank you to those who reviewed, and those that alerted and favourited :) Hope you like this chapter – it took me a while to get the awkward bits right. This is the last 'set-up' section – from now on it's gonna be far more plot-driven and interesting! Please R&R!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot.

**Chapter 4: Runaway**

"_Baby I got a plan, _

_Runaway as fast as you can." _

_Runaway – Kanye West_

Being in the Grangers' modest home was a strange experience for Draco. Never had he pictured himself in a muggle household, let alone that of Hermione Granger, and to say he was apprehensive would be a severe understatement. After crossing the threshold he'd followed her inside, feeling more and more out of his element with each step. He'd looked at the photos displayed proudly in the frames across the hallway, his eyes lingering on a young girl with a mane of frizz and a cheeky grin. Although the photo was frozen, the twinkle in her eye had been captured perfectly. The war had taken that twinkle from all of them, but he knew that he was the reason why it would never cross her eyes in the same way again.

The kitchen was strange to say the least. There were appliances and unusual objects all around the room, and nothing seemed safe or familiar. He hovered by the door whilst Hermione picked up a strange jug-like device and took it to the faucet. He watched as she filled it with water and placed it back in its place, averting his eyes when she leaned against the work top to look at him.

He could practically hear the cogs turning over in her head as she tried to analyse his motives. He had a feeling that her brow was furrowed and her eyes had narrowed, similar to the way she'd look in school when trying to come up with a witty and cutting retort to one of his infamous insults. He stared determinedly through the window that overlooked their garden, the glass tainted with slashes of raindrops.

"Tea?"

Her voice broke him out of his reverie and his eyes met hers. She was looking at him with a mixture of apprehension, trepidation and amusement – the ridiculousness of the situation beginning to sink in.

"I'm not really a tea drinker," he admitted.

"Me neither," she agreed, hesitating for a moment. "Whiskey?"

Draco's eyes widened in disbelief as she walked through to the adjoining dining room and picked up a bottle from a cherry-oak cabinet. She poured them both a glass before he could respond and screwed the cap back on.

"It's the muggle version of firewhiskey. If you like the strong stuff you'll probably like this."

Draco accepted the glass without a word, momentarily stunned. He'd always found it hard to picture her gulping down a butterbeer, never mind whiskey.

They sipped quietly, sneaking blank glances at the other, both wanting to speak but unable to form the right words.

The clock ticked.

Water dripped from the tap.

And Draco's legs began to get stiff from standing.

"Why exactly are you here?" she asked bluntly, her voice husky from the whiskey.

And there it was – the golden question that he had no idea how to answer.

"I…" he started, not quite sure of how he was going to approach the issue. "I wanted to…"

"To what?"

Her voice was soft, with a hint of accusation. Draco's eyes dropped to his glass.

"I don't know."

Hermione sighed, walking over to the table and sitting down.

Draco followed.

"Why did you let me in?" he asked, taking a seat opposite her.

Hermione's face broke into an ironic smile.

"I wish I knew. I guess I've been doing a lot of stupid things lately."

Draco could only nod in response.

"You look awful," she said dryly.

"As do you."

"Touché."

Draco traced the rim of his glass with his finger, unable to understand why there was a part of him – albeit a small, microscopic part – that felt an odd sense of ease. Here he was with Hermione Granger, drinking _muggle_ whiskey, bantering almost as they used to, and there was a part of him that was comfortable. It would have been almost enjoyable if he wasn't aware of how the moment was tainted with his impending confession.

Hermione brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes, and Draco was again hit by how small she seemed – it was literally as though she'd shrunk into herself. Even though she was a woman, Draco felt as though he was sitting across from a girl – a girl unsure of her identity and where she belonged.

He knew he had a small piece of information that would either break her further, or piece a tiny part of her back together again, and he knew what he had to do with it.

"Granger, I did come here for a reason."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow.

"I assumed you did."

Draco swallowed thickly.

"I have to tell you something."

Hermione sat up, her eyes locking with his – there was something about his tone of voice that alarmed her. Draco shifted nervously.

"It's about Ron."

The change in her demeanour was so quick he knew he would never have noticed it if he hadn't been studying her intently. Her eyes had darkened, and were now wide and alert, and she'd subconsciously lent forward. She looked frozen – as if she were anticipating his words with baited breath.

"I…I don' t know if you know this, but…I was there that night."

Hermione felt her heart skip a beat. Just moments ago she'd been wondering why she'd even let Draco Malfoy, childhood nemesis and former deatheater, cross her threshold, and now it appeared that he could be the guy to tell her everything she needed to know. But his grim expression was making her stomach twist unpleasantly, and she had a feeling she'd be needing more whiskey to get through it.

"You were there?" she whispered.

Draco nodded. His throat felt like sand paper, and each time he spoke he felt as though he was being prickled to death. He hadn't even gotten to the main part yet, and already he was contemplating apparating away. _Therapeutic my arse, _he thought bitterly. It may have helped Blaise, but he doubted it was going to work for him.

"Do you know who did it?"

In that moment, it was as if time ceased to exist. It was as though he was standing at a cross roads – he could either confess and deal with the consequences, or deny and live with the guilt. Neither option was particularly appealing to him.

The sound of keys in the front door broke the moment, and Hermione jumped out of her seat as if it had burned her.

"Hermione, we're home!"

The voice of a woman floated through the walls, and Draco knew he had to leave before things got even messier. Hermione watched as he stood up, anger flashing in her eyes.

"Don't you dare…" she hissed.

Draco pulled out his wand, guilt washing over his face.

"I'm sorry."


End file.
